


Sometimes friends are like angels. Literally.

by Cat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:25:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat221b/pseuds/Cat221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would you do if you lost your friend? How would you behave?<br/>But what would you do if you were the friend someone lost? And now you're back. Only problem - you can only watch...</p><p>A short story, which might get a next part. I'm not good at writing summarys, also it's my first fanfiction. It's AU story. I think that's the right term? Rating because of death. Let me know if it should be something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes friends are like angels. Literally.

**Author's Note:**

> So… That came to me in a dream. Sounds weird, I know. But actually, I woke up in the middle of night with this in my head and I just knew that if I won’t write it down, I will forget it. Here it is. It’s my first attempt in fanfiction. I think it’s AU. Be warned of character death! It’s probaly full of writing mistakes. Forgive me about those. At least I tried.  
> But basically, all suggestions for the future are welcome!
> 
> Also, Benedict's eyes confuse me, so I just picked that this time Sherlock's eyes were blue. You know how they tend to chance depending on background? Yeah, well background tones in my fic are blue. That's that.

John is pissed and he doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s because kitchen looks like a battlefield, maybe it’s because Sherlock’s late and he doesn’t even care. John tries again.  
“Sherlock! You have to get up! Lestrade called an hour ago and it was supposed to be important!”  
Nothing. The body on the couch doesn’t move. Eyes don’t even blink. It’s like John is not there and somehow it makes him even angrier. Man sighs and starts to turn to the kitchen, someone has to create an order in this mess and since he’s almost certain that Sherlock won’t do it, probably sooner or later he should do it himself so why not now.  
Suddenly strong arms move to support rising body and with two long steps it’s moved near the window. Tall figure is swaying a bit and it looks like Sherlock hasn’t eaten for days. Which is a bit weird, because John could swear that only this morning he got him to eat two toasts and a tea. Smaller man shrugs and turns again to head to the kitchen when he sees violin. Or better yet, what’s remained of it. Broken pieces of wood and strings are lying near the fireplace and something grips John’s heart, something is wrong.  
At that exact moment mrs. Hudson chooses to come in.  
“Sherlock. I brought you some tea and your favorite biscuits. Is everyt-…”  
Talking ends when women sees that named man doesn’t pay any attention. Sad look crosses her eyes when she places tray to the table and leaves. John almost tries to apologize, but something holds him back. Then he sees the tray and only one tea cup. He sees the emptyness in those bright eyes when they look on the table and then outside the window again. And then John remembers.  
He remembers scream and brakes screaching and pain. He remembers those same eyes looking at him, hands gripping him tight and deep voice commanding him to live. He remembers unshed tears in those beautiful eyes and himself choking on blood when he tries to assure his friend that it’s gonna be alright, he has lived through worse than that. He almost believed it in that moment, but deep down he knew that he was dying and there was nothing anyone could do. He remembers trying to squeeze Sherlock’s hand, to show him, to make him understand. That desperate feeling that Sherlock must understand. And then he remembers that same deep voice fading.  
“Please god, let him live…”

Boring. The way John Watson died was ultimately boring, and he’s almost embarrassed because of that. Reckless driver, that’s all what it takes. War, Moriarty, countless risks. Only to be hit by a car near home. Tedious.  
He always knew that this day will come, he just hoped it to be later. Now he sits on his chair and watches Sherlock pacing around. He sees that man is thinner, which makes him think how long time has been between his death and this moment. He sees determination in Sherlock’s eyes, he knows that man has a case which is almost solved. Now John observes. Sherlock would be proud.  
He follows Sherlock outside. Just like he always has done. He has his back. They rush through the Scotland Yard and no one, even not Donovan, is raising their eyes when black coat brushes past them. John wonders…  
Lestrade however meets Sherlock’s eyes for a moment when man steps in his office. Not for long though. John knows why, he has seen it. Those blue orbs are hard, cold, depths swirling in emotions which are forced down. When you look long enough, you could see such a deep pain that most people couldn’t handle. But Sherlock could. He can.  
They talk about the case, but John doesn’t pay attention. He observes his friend and tries to figure out how he could get him to eat, when no one sees or hears him. Because his observations are alarming. He could detect that Sherlock hasn’t eaten for days, dark circles under his eyes support the theory that neither has man slept for a while.  
His monologue is cut short when other man jumps up from his chair and walks past him. Guess that conversation is over. Greg’s worried look sent to Sherlock’s back is the last thing John sees when door closes. 

He grows very worried when he sees Sherlock taking case after case. Not bothering to take care of himself. He sees everyone trying to help, only to be turned down by wave of the hand. Sherlock doesn’t care. He’s past the point of caring. Even Mycroft’s threats to have him locked to somewhere where they feed him through the tube doesn’t make any progress. Younger man just shrugs and rushes to solve another murder. He doesn’t smile anymore. Not that Sherlock was sunshine before, but now John hasn’t seen even the shadow of smile, even not when there was serial killer on the loose. He’s worried and there’s nothing that he can do. Sometimes John wonders if that’s his own personal hell. To care so deeply about someone and not being able to do anything to stop them from destroying themselves. Forced just to watch. 

So he observes. After few weeks he can deduct pretty much everything about his friend. All because he has seen everything. He has seen how Sherlock’s eyes grow hollow when someone mentions John or how his stare hardened when Greg took John’s mug form the table to wash it. Mycroft tried to discuss that topic with his younger brother. Once. He never tried again. Sherlock sneered in his face and told him that sentiment is chemical defect found in the losing side, followed by ranting about feelings and emotions which are unimportant. Nevertheless, mug stays in that place and John is pretty certain that he was the last one who touched the door leading to his room. Even the clothes he was buried with, were sent by his sister. No one has entered in his room and he’s sure that as long as Sherlock lives in 221b, no one ever will.  
His friend tries to find distraction. And nothing helps. He sees that brilliant brain sorting through most complexed puzzles, untangling tricky mysteries and yet in the end nothing matters. Because his friend comes home, opens empty fridge, closes it, makes tea and then forgets it after few sips. Curls himself on the couch and closes his eyes, only to open them after few hours. To make more tea and this time, maybe, just maybe, drink it until it’s finished. Emptyness stays though. In his eyes. 

Sherlock Holmes gained a friend. Welcomed him. And then lost him.  
Suddenly John understands more. “Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.” Maybe Sherlock isn’t so much sociopath as he likes to think he is. But he is brilliant. No one can ever argue with that.


End file.
